


call me anything you like

by heartkeepingopenhouse



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartkeepingopenhouse/pseuds/heartkeepingopenhouse
Summary: Years after the events of the novel, Emma finds her thoughts near constantly on the man she knew as Stephen Black.
Relationships: Flora Greysteel/Arabella Strange, Stephen Black/Emma Pole
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	call me anything you like

It was not the exhaustion which had insulted her; she had been sick and bedridden all her life. Exuberance had been the wall against which she'd banked her fury. Norrell and the gentleman had given her two weeks of unbridled, full life, and they'd taken it away from her. Men would never let you have anything to keep. 

Well. 

A certain kind of man. 

The kind of man who'd never been tired unless he wanted to be. Who'd never reached for anything and found himself denied. The kind of man who would take it for granted that the woman he'd married was happy, and that if she were not happy it was her own fault. 

She had begun by aiming her anger at all magicians, at all Faerie, but despite herself the legends being retold in England had begun to seep through the surface: tales of beautiful, extraordinary things, not only done by men. Arabella herself had begun to cast spells when she thought nobody was looking, and if Emma denounced her only friend for turning roses into glass, she deserved all her years of misery. 

Could she picture it now? It was never far from her mind. The gentleman had only occasionally, and only towards the end, let her dance with anybody else, and when he was not with her he was with the man she had known as Stephen Black. So she could not ever have danced with him -- not that she would have wanted to -- she had an occasional respite leaning against the wall, watching the others, dreaming of sitting down. It would have been a splendid gift, one of those nights, if the man who had been Stephen had leant against the wall with her, if they'd have some conversation. Or if they had ever been allowed to leave the ballroom, which they never would have been, and found some old unoccupied room, perhaps a library. Matching chaise lounges for them to lay on until they were noticed gone. He had a lovely voice; a very kind one. She dreamed of it, sometimes, while she danced. The gentleman when with her had always been looking at him, so she was allowed to look at him too. More so than she could have in England. 

He had thought of her over himself. He had tried to save her at his own expense, and he had managed to save them both. When she'd called his name he hadn't turned, but what of that? He had done much more for her than anybody ever could have asked, and it was his right to walk away from her. Any other man - Strange or Norrell or Walter - would have taken their chance to leave her behind in Hell if they could save themselves, and she had no doubt that the man she'd known as Stephen Black would have seen and recognized many such opportunities, traveling with the gentleman. 

Now she slept every night and usually well into the morning. She went for long walks all by herself, and she had a lovely plump little belly, of which she was very proud. She did precisely what she wanted, when she wanted to, and nobody ever dared to tell her otherwise, and she never saw the face she'd known as Stephen Black's face, no matter how long she looked into Flora's mirror and begged. 

Childermass had said that he had been the nameless slave who was now king. He was king of the place they had known as Lost-Hope, although it was not called that anymore. She didn't know what it was called now, because just before he'd said Childermass had called out, "No need to be shy, Lady Pole!" and she'd been tempted to shoot him again, or at least cut up his face properly. 

She was proud of her response: "Please, call me Emma. I have no need of any Poles now." But she had still found a reason to walk away without hearing any more. 

When she was gone, Arabella sighed into her tea. 

Childermass said, "Her hatred of men is pathological, and complete." He sounded impressed.

Arabella looked at Flora; Flora looked at Arabella. "I am afraid," said Arabella, "that it isn't quite that simple." 

Immediately after her return Emma had slept brilliantly, deliciously well, and sprang out of bed each morning determined to make her case known to the world. She was marvelously unguilty, and felt keenly the injustice of being placed in a madhouse after trying to shoot Norrell; this was the only sensible reaction anyone had ever had to Norrell, no matter what anybody else said. She refused to be ashamed of instead shooting the man who came in the way; he ought to have known better, although she was privately glad he'd recovered. Wonderful, dreamless sleep for twelve hours every night, she'd had, and earned, more than most. 

She was made irritated, then, when sleep became evasive. 

It was normal, said everyone, via Flora and Arabella; she was not fool enough to be annoyed that they were discussing her with the others, the men who visited and whom she largely avoided. There was not a person alive, agreed their collection of acquaintances, who hadn't had trouble falling asleep at some time in their lives. 

Flora suggested hot milk; Arabella stitched her a pillow filled with lavender. Both reminded her that though it was her custom to wake early, she could sleep into the morning or even afternoon as often as she liked. This was true, although she hadn't thought to voice it earlier. The three of them, since they'd left the house of Aunt and Dr. Greysteel, made up very much their own society, which London would hardly recognize. They had Louisa, who lived with them and was paid nominally to clean and cook and ensure the dogs were locked in at night, but Emma liked very much to cook for herself whenever she thought of being hungry, and when Childermass was visiting she liked to bully him into making tea while Louisa sat at the table and laughed with the rest of them. There had certainly not been any rules about hours of rising, except that three women well-bred to be good wives generally had early rises built into their bones. 

Emma was a uniquely bad wife, and settled herself into her lavender pillow; Flora placed a cup of hot milk on the nightstand, and warned her that it would do no good if she didn't drink it quickly. Arabella nodded, like a stern father in a children's novel. Emma felt a bit like a child, the kind she'd never been before. Emma's mother had always made her feel sorry for being sick, and she'd not been spoiled in any way that would count. 

It was latent childish naughtiness that made her say, "You two look lovely together. Why, you're practically holding hands!" 

Flora flushed scarlet from her temple to her chest, which was rather a stronger reaction than Emma could have planned for. Arabella simply rolled her eyes, and told Emma to drink the milk quickly so they could take the cup away. 

Cup drained, head nestled, Emma knew sleep wouldn't come for her easily. But the way Flora determinedly reached for Arabella's hand before they left the room warmed her anyway. She put out her candle and resigned herself to her dreams, which were more fantastical and further away than they'd ever been. 

Flora and Arabella spent most of their time in the library, but Emma had never bothered much with it. She liked to spend her days walking around the moor with the dogs, observing nature's bloom around her. She could spend hours looking at a beetle walk up a tree, and if the dogs were with her there was no end to the fascination she could find outdoors. 

Once or twice she'd press her hands against a tree or a stone, and remember uneasily that they were all magicked, but she'd find a reason to relax her hand and rip her thoughts away, back to the solid, earthly things she knew. 

Occasionally in the beginning, she'd come back from her romping at tea-time to find her friends in the library, cheerfully discussing a book she might have loved in her previous life, and rather than be a nuisance she'd take her tea with them, there, and nod along at the correct points in the conversation. Somehow, after the first weeks, Arabella and Flora had decided this wouldn't do - "Our raucous teas might damage the books!" Flora declared - and bade Emma make a big ruckus when she came in, so they would know to meet her. Then they would have tea in the parlor, which Arabella said was what civilized people ought to do, even though Emma wasn't sure they were all that civilized anymore. They loved her in this attentive, true way, but what she had to ask for, she felt, demanded the library. 

She walked around the grounds with the dogs, only enough to ensure they were exercised and she had steadied her nerves. Then, too early for teatime, she slipped into the library, spending a moment - because Childermass was still the only person who could find her if she truly meant to hide - watching her friends. They were both on the loveseat, perhaps closer than truly necessary. Flora was showing Arabella something in her book, very pretty and excited; Arabella was looking at Flora's face with intense tenderness, and lifted her hand to tuck a curl behind her ear. 

This settled a question Emma hadn't known she was asking: they were happy together. Her insistence on moving had not been petulance alone; it was better for them all. 

"I want a spell," she said, and smiled to see them both start. "No, lovelies," she added, making her way to a chaise lounge, sitting down. "I think we ought to stay here for this conversation." 

Flora said, "You hate magic."

Arabella said, "What kind of spell?" 

Emma told them. 

There was a silence. Finally Arabella, practical, answered. "It's not difficult. Even mediocre magicians could manage it, and I think Flora and I have attained something higher than mediocrity."

"High praise," teased Flora, who knew perfectly well that they had surpassed Strange and Norrell; when all the books of magic disappeared, so did all the benchmarks of the past.

Arabella continued: "The skill lies in undoing it, which you haven't yet asked for."  
"Aren't going to ask for." 

"Emma, you cannot be sure -"

Emma lifted her hand. "I know every argument you will make - I've made it myself, and counter-argued myself in circles, so that I no longer know where I stand myself. It's no use. I cannot sleep without him. I must try." 

"There are things we would protect you from," said Flora, unhappy. 

"I know," said Emma, "And I you. Jonathan Strange will come back eventually - even such a fool as he cannot fail all his life. And he believes that both of you are in love with him." 

Arabella and Flora looked at each other, and then, as if on cue, at their own hands. "We both were, at one point," said Arabella. 

Emma raised an eyebrow. She'd spoken as though they were discussing a dress no longer in fashion, or a necklace, lost years ago. "Is that what love is?"

Arabella lifted her chin. "It didn't occur to me to do anything but love him. If I can speak for Flora -"

"For me it was the same," Flora said. 

Emma nodded, turning the idea over in her head. It didn't occur to me to anything but love him. If she had married Sir Walter in regular fashion, nineteen and weak to a forty-two year old healthy man in government, would it have occurred to her not to love him? She might have lived her life devoted to him. She had been a girl who liked books, and who placed authority in the hands of learned men. 

Her life having been what it was, she couldn't stand him at any price. She had even written that in response to his latest plaintive letter: I CANNOT STAND YOU. And then she'd scratched it out, and written an infinitely more cruel and somehow more acceptable answer: I live happily and quietly on the Northern moor, and will not ask you for anything. As my husband, you have full rights to the thousand pound a year that was placed on my head. I live quite selfishly off of the money of others....you may consider yourself a widower from here on out, as you have wished to be since you proposed. And then she'd scratched that out as well, and never responded at all. 

"What will you do when he returns?" Emma asked. She had assumed she would be present to witness it, but assumptions have no truck in their world. 

"We will be honest," said Arabella, taking a hold of Flora's hand. "He told me not to be a widow. I have not been. He will have to accept what comes." 

Emma had been Arabella's friend for much of her marriage, and knew that Strange had loved her, ornamentally - had not listened to her with much frequency, had assumed her needs were met without bothering to see to them, had taken comfort and warmth from her without even thinking that she might want the same from him. It was like that with most marriages, but somehow Emma had minded more with Arabella. Flora's attentiveness and kindness had been a revelation to them both, and sometimes Emma would think about how unworthy Jonathan Strange had nearly ruined both women and go white-hot with rage. She had been afraid, all these months, that if he returned in her absence they would feel obliged to spare his feelings. Now that she knew they would not, she could breathe more deeply. She was sure she could do what was necessary. 

"Tell me how to do the spell," Emma said. "Slowly, and leaving nothing out. I will repeat it and you will correct me until I can recite it by heart. And then we will ring for Louisa to lay out tea in the parlor." 

Arabella had been right: it was not a difficult spell. The worst part was walking along John Uskglass' bridge without trembling; she was determined not to betray any fear. Arabella had told her the new name of the kingdom the man she'd known as Stephen ruled, but she would always think of it as Lost-Hope, and her feet knew the way. 

She knocked on the door with conviction, not recognizing the faery who opened the door. She was in much better condition, her clothes clean and devoid of holes, than any who used to dance with her. "Hello," said Emma. "I would like to see the king." 

His eyes widened when he saw her. "Lady -" 

"Oh Emma, please call me Emma," she said, on the verge of tears. "I'll have nothing of his anymore, not his name or anything else!"

She stood looking at him a while, and then remembered to curtsy. "Your Majesty, I'm sorry," she said. "I have never before been in the presence of a king. I was meant to meet the English king once as a girl, but I was too sick, and kept my poor mother at home as well." 

"It is no matter," he said absently. His voice was as kind and lovely as ever, but now more resonant - it seemed to echo around the whole room. She wasn't sure if he hadn't been capable of it before, or if it'd just been stifled in him. 

"May I stay?" Her voice sounded very small. 

"My lady Emma," the king said, "you are my honored guest, and may come and go as you wish. Stay tonight, and I will return you to your bed whenever - " his face creased - "whenever you like. Will you dance?"

"Do you dance, your Majesty?" 

"No." 

"Then I will not. I would like to sit by you if I may, and speak to you. I often wished that you and I could sit and speak back when - in the harder times. It would have made it bearable." 

So the king ordered that a throne be erected next to his own, that his guest may have a worthy place to sit. They spent the night watching the faeries, and the king told her how he had come to his throne, and what he had done to improve his kingdom, for as she knew faeries were terribly indolent, and had let the kingdom degrade itself. Emma told him that the halls were now beautiful and the music was varied and lovely, and that she especially admired the conditions of the clothes. She said she would not have recognized it if she hadn't known it was the same place she'd been forced to dance all night. 

For her part, Emma told the king about leaving her husband and insisting on the moors, and bringing Arabella with her. She said that neither Jonathan Strange nor Mr. Norrell had returned yet from their battle - and good riddance to them! She then became distracted and went on a bit of a tirade against English magicians and their ambitions, letting people suffer and die to build their own mediocre careers. It had been a long time since she'd been in any kind of polite society, and she forgot to suppress a yawn. "Oh," she said, blushing as she covered her mouth. "I'm sorry, excuse me." 

The king smiled at her. "No need to be sorry," he said, eyes warm, and touched her cheek. 

Emma woke up in her own bed in the house on the moors, late in the morning and fully rested. 

After some inventive swearing, she consented to come downstairs and eat a pile of toast with marmalade. 

"It's good to see you again," Arabella said drily. Emma threw a ball of bread at her, but she was right: coming back after less than twelve hours was a bit of a denouement after the scene Emma had made. She'd been tearfully exact about dividing all her clothes up equally among the household, which had left her with nothing to wear at breakfast. Luckily Flora had lent her back her favorite grey dress (which did not fit Flora anyway), Arabella had graciously produced her boots (several sizes too big for Arabella's feet), and Louisa promised to find all the other garments and put them back in Emma's own rooms. "They haven't been let out or taken in or changed at all, miss," said Louisa, "so we'll put you right back in them." 

"Very sweet of you, Louisa," Emma said grandly, and kicked Flora under the table for giggling. 

"You know we're only laughing because you seem all right," said Arabella, a bit awkwardly, some time later. "If you're not all right, you simply have to say so, and try to forgive us. We're relieved to see you in reasonably good spirits." 

"Of course, my spirits are fine," said Emma. "Must just get up and go back again." 

Flora and Arabella exchanged an alarmed look. 

"But, my darling," said Flora, conciliatory, "if the king has rejected you once -" 

"Twice," said Arabella, who, less conciliatory, counted the time immediately after the drowning of the gentleman. 

"Well, if he has made his feelings clear, isn't it better to settle here -" 

"He didn't reject me," Emma said. "Well. Perhaps the first time. But he told me I was his honored guest, and could stay as long as I liked. I misspoke - I said excuse me after yawning, and he mistook me for wanting to be excused and returned me here. Very kind of him. And if I return tonight I can finally ask my question. I was so distracted by how well he'd managed everything in Faerie, and how comparatively incompetent our own English magicians have been, from the start -" 

Arabella and Flora began to gather the tea things, having heard this lecture many times before. 

"But really, when you think about modeling yourself after people as unworthy, as short-sighted as Strange and Norrell, it is no surprise when they themselves make idiotic societies and ruin the countryside trying to move forests. Why, I heard of one magician -" 

"What time are you leaving tonight, dear?" asked Arabella. 

"Dusk," said Emma, who hated clocks. "Oh, I'd better tell Louisa not to bring everything back to my rooms - poor dear, I was so moved by her kindness that I forgot to tell her I was leaving again." 

Flora put a hand out to stop her. "Perhaps, Emma, you could leave the clothes, and trust us to divide them up once you've - once you've been gone a reasonable amount of time." 

Emma was unruffled, and picked up her teacup and saucer. "I know you think I'll be back tomorrow morning. Well - perhaps I will be! But if I'm not, just remember not to leave it longer than a week." 

Before she left the next time, Emma practiced what she would say in the mirror. "My dear Majesty - no - your dear Majesty - no - your Majesty, whose word and opinion are so dear to me, if you would hear the regard I have for you, and then be so gracious as to reply -" 

This time, when Emma arrived at the door of the old kingdom, three faeries greeted her, and accompanied her to the dais where the king's throne was. "Emma!" he said when he saw her. He was far too handsome for her to remember any of the speech she'd prepared. She simply bobbed her head and beamed at him.

"I didn't tell you before," said the king, "but you have clearly regained your health since the day I last saw you. You are lovelier than you ever were, and you pay my court a great gift with your presence. Will you dance, my lady Emma, or will you sit by me again?" 

Emma thought she might just die right there, but she managed to say, "Oh, I'll sit, I won't dance." Her throne was summarily brought out for her. 

The king waited until the faeries had begun to dance before speaking to her in a low voice. "I meant it, Emma - I am greatly honored that you choose to come to my hall. But I cannot help but wonder why." 

For a second, as Emma looked at him, she remembered every time she'd tried desperately to speak, and been unable to. All those years had left her distrustful of men (most men) and unlikely to let her heart into her mouth. But she hadn't come here to flirt or lie, so she said, "I love you."

It was several horrible long seconds before she realized he was not going to say anything. 

"I love you," she said again. "I've loved you since I saw you - and I loved you all the time we were here - and I live now a beautiful life with a family I've chosen, and yet I cannot sleep. I had to come here to tell you that you are the most wonderful person I've ever -" 

She had to take a moment to breathe. 

"Arabella and Flora were worried I would come back and be trapped here forever. But one of a handful of certainties in my life is your kindness and your mercy, and I knew I would be safe. But I had to say - I had to ask." 

Still the king said nothing. It was impossible to imagine that he did not understand what she meant. 

Finally she said, "Oh, please, send me back!" And he did. 

Nobody teased her, this time. 

The few days afterwards were not like either her true illness, before she'd died; or her imposed illness, afterwards. She slept well at night, and was active in the day. She ate at every meal, and spoke with Flora and Arabella. 

And yet she was quiet in a way that frightened them. It reminded Arabella of the bad days; Flora followed Arabella's lead when it came to Emma; Louisa noted that all three of them were losing their appetites. Finally it was Emma herself who decided to break the collective despondence. 

"The misery in this house," she declared, "will upset the dogs. We must fight it." 

"Did you have something in mind?" asked Flora, whose disposition was inclined towards joy if it could be found. 

"We'll dance!" She rang the bell. "Louisa, put down that rag. Your duty now is to dance with me." 

"Miss!" cried Louisa, but she was a young woman too, and Emma was lively enough to throw out her compunctions. 

"Ba dum, dum dum dum, da duum - dance, you two, it's a ball!"

Flora held out her hands to Arabella, eyes shining, so they danced as well to Emma's terrible song - it had no consistent rhythm, wasn't on any recognizable key, and frequently Emma would become absorbed in a complicated step and forget to continue. But this had the intended effect of making the dancing something of their own - completely separate from what the gentleman made them do in Lost-Hope. Arabella had not danced since those days, and even before she had not very frequently danced with her husband. Now the dance belonged to the four of them, to their laughter, not their submission. 

When Emma, out of breath and red in the face, finally broke away from Louisa, she found the king of Faery in the room. 

He smiled at her; she couldn't tell if it was a genuine smile or politesse. 

Impulsively, she held out her hands. "Would you like a dance?" 

He hesitated, but before she could snatch her hands back he took one in his own. "I have not danced in many years," he said, and she knew what he meant, "but I find I would be honored for the pleasure of walking with you." 

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly, once they were far enough away from the house. Her hand was in his elbow. "I shouldn't have asked again." 

"Again?" 

"I could count the other night as my second rejection. The first was when I called your name after you killed the gentleman. You walked away from me. I should have taken that for a complete answer." 

The king was quiet. "I did not," he said, "mean that as a rejection of you. I meant it as a rejection of my old name." 

"But truthfully," he continued, "I think I would have considered them one and the same, at the time." 

"Yes," she whispered, her eyes clouding. Of course he would see her as an artifact of his past, weighing him down. Was it better than him just not wanting her? Or was it an excuse? 

"I thought you might want to keep your husband's best servant," he said, ducking his head. "I confess it did not occur to me that you might want something else. I was not very kind the other day. I came to apologize. Emma?" 

She had stopped still. Of course. She had so thoroughly rejected her previous life that she'd assumed everybody else could see it too, but that wasn't fair; Arabella and Flora were of much the same situation she'd been born into, and anyway they saw her every day, and knew what she hadn't chosen to tell them. But it wasn't fair to expect the same of someone who'd suffered as much as the man next to her, the nameless slave, the king of the unknown kingdom. 

She removed her hand from his elbow, and stepped in front of him. Slowly, maintaining eye contact the whole time, she dropped to her knees. 

"Emma," he said. 

"My king," she said, "my lord. I've loved you as long as I've been someone whose love was worth anything. My whole marriage, I lived for the look of sympathy in your eyes - acknowledgement of the hell we shared. Your hell was worse than mine, and I know you must have had opportunity to leave without me, and yet you did not. I dreamed about the touch of your hand. I still dream of it. 

"This is the third time I've asked you, but the first times were clumsy and unclear. I believe there is power in threes. I am asking to give myself to you; I am asking if I may be yours." 

"Emma," he said, fingers curling against her jaw. "Would you leave your friends here, the life you've made - for me?" It sounded like a typical lover's promise, but she knew it wasn't - she knew that the answer she made would count as a vow. 

"Yes, I would," she said. "But I have been raised very selfish and spoiled, and if I can, I will have both." 

In the end, most of Emma's clothes remained in her room, although eventually she convinced Flora to take the waist in of the grey dress and wear it herself. She needed a dedicated room in the house, after all - for her husband was a great king, and must bring a few attendants with him when they visited; a great deal of rearranging was done to accommodate the party.

They did not normally dress for dinner, but on this particular occasion Emma had been mucking about with the dogs to a truly unbelievable degree, and it was cruel to Louisa to track mud into the dining room. So Emma wore her green dress, which the king had said was always his favorite. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her neck. 

"Darling," said Emma. "When we were at home, you said you would bring only yourself, and somehow we've needed to sleep three faeries. What on earth will we do with them?" 

He smiled at her, and she knew it was a true one. "You'll see."

The faeries' music lasted all night long, but nobody was cursed, and rest came as easily as the rising sun.


End file.
